


To Be or Not to Be

by aislingdoheanta



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, M/M, Party, Pining Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 09:59:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2543438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aislingdoheanta/pseuds/aislingdoheanta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Halloween and the Amis get together for their usual costume party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be or Not to Be

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a play on the Vonnegut story which comes in later in the story. Because it's Enjolras-centric, there's not a lot of the other Amis.

In hindsight he shouldn’t have trusted Courfeyrac, because if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have Grantaire chasing him and quite literally hunting for him throughout the night. Courfeyrac will tell everyone later that he wouldn’t have had to step in if Enjolras had just worn a costume like everyone else.

Courfeyrac’s a liar.

It’s fairly public knowledge that Enjolras doesn’t dress up for Halloween. In truth, it’s normally because he’s so caught up in mid-terms and other projects that he just tended to forget about Halloween until he showed up at one of his friends’ apartments and disappointed them all.

It’s just what happened to Enjolras. He gets distracted quickly, easily. So naturally, it was horrible when he showed up at Jehan and Bahorel’s flat and stood in the doorway because, Damn it. He’d forgotten his costume.

He had actually been planning to wear one this year. Mostly because it was Jehan’s theme of beloved literary persons (fictional or non-fictional) and he really didn’t want to disappoint Jehan. Jehan made the worst kicked puppy look ever and then went on like nothing was wrong with him. That was somehow worse than when Courfeyrac would go on and on about how Enjolras had betrayed him.

Enjolras had been planning to go as Robespierre. Yes, _technically_ he wasn’t a “True Literary Character,” but he’d written things and Enjolras was ready to fight anyone who dared challenged him. Besides, the group has never let him decide, even after last year when Courfeyrac’s theme was sex-industry themed. He claimed it was because he wanted to raise awareness to the overwhelming epidemic of misogynistic attitudes toward female sex workers and the treatment of the sex industry workers in general, but Enjolras knew that wasn’t the full truth. He’d chosen that theme specifically because he knew Marius’s face would be red the entire night. (It most definitely was.)

Grantaire claimed that they never let him pick a theme because everyone assumed that he would pick French Revolutions—any time period—and they all got enough information on it by hearing him talk about his favorite period in history at the meetings.

“Besides, Enjolras,” Grantaire would drawl. “Those poor, unsuspecting people who are just out to have a good time would be devastated if you started lecturing them in the middle of their drinking game.”

But that’s all irrelevant because Enjolras _had_ been planning on wearing a costume. He’d had it specially ordered and everything. Once again he got caught up in his current discussion—Grantaire says argument—with someone online about their (wrong) views on the latest government proposition.

But when he walked in and saw Jehan’s face and saw that there was no real disappointment made it even harder for Enjolras to explain it to him. That he could just run back to his flat and change into his costume. Jehan just smiled and told him he was glad he came.

Something was spilled on him almost as soon as Jehan had turned around. Before it was even fully registered, Courfeyrac was there, herding Enjolras into Jehan’s room and muttering about people not watching where they’re going. He thrust a white paint-suit at him, and told him he better change.

“What the hell is this?” Enjolras asked him, staring at the offending clothing.

“It’s a costume.”

“What exactly am I?” Enjolras asked, grabbing the suit from him.

“Whatever you want to be, but don’t be surprised when other people have ideas too.” He strutted out with a wink.

Enjolras had put on the suit, albeit reluctantly, and walked out just in time for Grantaire’s rousing speech of “The first one to spot the White Beast gets this gold coin.”

Courfeyrac smirked at Enjolras before pointing at him. “He’s there.”

Grantaire turned around and was genuinely shocked for about half a second before smirking at Enjolras. “It appears that your sight is true.”

Grantaire had tossed the coin at Courfeyrac before advancing on Enjolras, his weird tube thing with one fake arrow in it at his side. 

“The beast does not flee?” Grantaire asked him.

Enjolras didn’t answer because he was taking in Grantaire’s costume. He was definitely a pirate of sorts, if the peg leg was anything to go by. But he wasn’t a normal pirate. There was something vaguely familiar about his costume.

“Who are you supposed to be?” Enjolras asked instead.

Grantaire laughed, but it wasn’t unkind, surprisingly. It was more like fond amusement than anything else. That was an emotion that Enjolras was beginning to understand, thanks to the man in currently standing in front of him.

“Captain Ahad of the _Pequod_ ,” Grantaire said after a minute. “And you’re my Moby Dick.”

Enjolras started. “I’m not. I’m a,” he looked down at himself. “A painter.”

Grantaire shook his head and smiled. “Definitely the white beast I’ve been hunting all these years. Ever since you bit my leg clean off.”

“R!” Eponine called from the kitchen and Grantaire glanced behind him and gestured.

“Until we meet again, Creature,” Grantaire said. “I have my men keeping their eyes out for Moby Dick.”

With that he took off, leaving Enjolras standing in the middle of the room feeling strangely unsure of himself.

Unfortunately that did not seem to last since Grantaire had practically recruited every single one of the Amis into keeping an eye out for him. Jehan found him in the kitchen and shouted for the Captain because he had laid eyes on the “beast who stole your leg.” Feuilly and Bahorel had had some sort of philosophical debate regarding whether or not they should inform the Ahab man about the sighting of Moby Dick when they had bigger things, such as stopping the apocalypse and finding their demon child first.

Eponine and her death-masked date, presumably Montparnasse, had just dragged him off to Grantaire without a word. Muschietta hadn’t done anything more than a vague gesture toward him, but whether that had been because Grantaire had been talking with Bossuet about his amazing costume—to which he praised Joly—right next to her or because she just didn’t particularly care, was really anyone’s guess. 

Not to mention, every five minutes Courfeyrac had stumbled upon him again, his magnifying glass up and ready and saying something ridiculously un-Sherlock Holmes like 

So yes, Enjolras should have just kept his wet, beer stained clothes on because then he wouldn’t currently be hiding out in Bahorel’s room.

“Are you thinking of climbing down the fire escape?” Combeferre asked him as he closed the door behind him.

“I was thinking about it,” Enjolras muttered, glancing back at the window. “You think anyone would notice I was gone?”

Combeferre laughed at that. “They’re all hunting for you as we speak. 

Enjolras groaned. “How much longer must I endure this?”

“You have been hanging out with Courfeyrac too much,” Combeferre said in lieu of an answer.

“Why do you say that?” Enjolras asked.

“You are being uncharacteristically overdramatic.”

Enjolras gaped at him. “I am not.” 

“Right. So you’re currently hiding out in a room and pouting because you can’t just tell them to stop for a bit?”

Enjolras looked down. “I just don’t want to disappoint them.”

Out of everyone, Combeferre knew the just how intensely Enjolras had a fear of failure. Not just for himself, but failing those around him. His friends.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre started. “It’s really not that big of a deal. Just go and tell Grantaire that you need a break. I doubt he realizes how seriously they took his words to heart. You know he wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable. 

“I suppose.”

“Unless you like one person’s specific attention,” Combeferre said. “I’m certain that a well placed word could stop all the harassment and allow only one person to continue to…lavish you with attention.” 

Enjolras felt his face burn and refused to look at Combeferre. It was true that lately his thoughts and feelings towards Grantaire were not exactly hostile, or as hostile as they once were when they argued. But he still wasn’t entirely sure where to go from here. It wasn’t exactly his area of expertise.

Not to mention talking about it, even to Combeferre, made him feel foolish. He figured that eventually whatever it was that was happening would pitter out or work itself out without any interference from Enjolras.

“Come on,” Combeferre said. “Jehan’s been looking for you because he wants to take a group picture.”

Enjolras trudged behind Combeferre, trying desperately not to drag his feet like a child. He smiled dutifully for the picture, even letting Grantaire point his device— _a harpoon, Enjolras,_ as he kept reminding him—at him.

As soon as the picture was taken, Grantaire grabbed his wrist. “Come here a sec?” 

Enjolras only nodded and tried to pretend like electric currents weren’t currently making their way through his arm and straight to his stomach.

Grantaire pulled out his green hoodie, the one that he always wore, and a paint-stained shirt and passed them to Enjolras. “That way people won’t think you’re still Moby Dick.”

Enjolras pulled the shirt over his head. “What am I supposed to be instead?”

“A painter,” Grantaire told him like it was obvious. 

“Yes, I got that,” Enjolras said as he pulled the surprisingly warm hoodie. “But I’m not sure if Jehan will appreciate the fact I’m not following his literary theme.” 

Grantaire snorted. “I doubt Jehan will notice considering he and Cosette just had a shots feud.”

“What?”

“If you hadn’t been hiding out, you would have realized it,” Grantaire said.

“How did that happen?” Enjolras asked as Grantaire started scribbling something out. 

Grantaire shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure, to be honest. One minute they were talking about different novel adaptations and then the next one of them challenged the other to something.”

“Who won?” Enjolras asked.

“I suppose technically Jehan, but he’s way worse off than Cosette,” Grantaire said.

“Then how did he win?” Enjolras asked.

“He might not have. They had rules that I didn’t follow and at the end he stood up and started shouting ‘I am the Champion!’ Which of course, prompted Bahorel to start singing that Queen song because, well, obviously.” Grantaire stood up and stuck a paper to Enjolras’ back.

“What was that?”

“It’s something so people know, well some of them, that you’re a literary character,” Grantaire said.

“What does it say?”

“2BR02B,” Grantaire answered him.  “It’s the title to a Vonnegut short story. You’re the painter in it. Unfortunately he wasn’t given a name, so I had to go with the suicide hotline number as your identifying feature.”

“I’ve never really gotten into Vonnegut,” Enjolras admitted as Grantaire stowed his marker away again. 

“Not surprising since he doesn’t deal directly with politics, societal structures, or the French Revolution.”

“That’s not all I read!” Enjolras said. 

“Sure, Apollo,” Grantaire said as he started walking back toward the kitchen area.

“You’ve read this story?” Enjolras asked, unwilling to drop the conversation with Grantaire.

“Yeah. It’s actually one of my favorites..”

Before Grantaire could continue, he was dragged away by Courfeyrac who had “spied” a clue worth investigating. Enjolras wondered if Courfeyrac had ever actually read Sherlock Holmes or just seen some cheesy adaptation.

No one came up to him after that and attempted to drag him to Grantaire. But at the same time, Grantaire didn’t appear by his side for the rest of the night, which was oddly unsettling.

When Enjolras got home, he couldn’t get the story out of his head so he looked it up online and read it. He may have texted out a response to Grantaire about the implausibility of such a society running so cleanly because incidents such as what transpired in the hospital between Wehling and the staff would happen constantly. The world would constantly be in a state of chaos. 

Grantaire responded to him in the morning and they spent majority of the day texting back and forth, even if Enjolras was almost certain Grantaire had to have a little bit of a hangover. And if he grinned every time he phone chimed, no one really needed to know.

 

(No one needed to know about the collection of Vonnegut he’d purchased online for research reasons either)

**Author's Note:**

> To be honest, I'm not entirely sure where this came from. I had this idea of costumes for the Amis and then it sort of spiraled and became this. I honestly don't know.
> 
> The Vonnegut story, "2BR02B" is read as "two be are naught two be" or "to be or not to be." I honestly hadn't meant to throw that in, but it just sort of happened and it's one of my favorites so I can't be too upset by it. I also highly recommend it to anyone. (TW for the short story include murder and suicide, though not really explicitly dealt with, and guns)


End file.
